“This holiday is for chumps,” he says, without looking up from his laptop as I arrive home.
I hide the tulips behind me, lift the trash open, let the dumb card with the love poem I wrote slide, crumpled, into this morning’s uneaten eggs.
“Yeah,” I agree. Like a chump.
Rachel Hapanowicz may be a hopeless romantic. Or she may just be a chump. Either way, she enjoys Valentine’s Day chocolates, as long as there’s no red fillings.
